


August 23, 1970 - Guildhall Plymouth, England

by Billy_Pilgrim



Category: Emerson Lake & Palmer (Band)
Genre: Gen, Greg being angry, Slight artistic license, What's new?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billy_Pilgrim/pseuds/Billy_Pilgrim
Summary: Prog rock "legends" to-be are anticipating an important commencement.
Kudos: 4





	August 23, 1970 - Guildhall Plymouth, England

The backstage dressing room echoed with the sounds of a hungry crowd outside. Nothing overtly comparable to audiences the three had experienced in the past, but still loud and exhilarating, giving the surrounding air a spark of dizzying energy. 

Greg Lake: vocalist, bassist, guitarist, designated grumbler, and Carl Palmer: percussionist and designated mediator were sitting in the humid room, baking in their own sweat. It didn't help that the "dressing room" was more in line with a glorified closet. The lockers, almost directly next to Greg, were sticky, and it seemed as if the place hadn't seen a mop in ages. 

Roadies and technical engineers filed in and out with close to no words towards the two musicians. What had to be done in their regard was already discussed, and with thirty minutes till starting all they had to care about was putting on a good show. Piece of cake.

_ This is not just any ol' show though _ , Greg mused to himself, arms crossed tightly.  _ This is our first show. Headlining feature. If being in King Crimson had taught me anything, it's that a solid first show is the way to go. I’m not going to find out what happens when one flops, that’s for sure. _

Filled with brimming anticipation, for the past few minutes Carl had found use of an old stool and cast-aside jacket as a makeshift drum, hammering it with deadly precision on his drumsticks. This entertained both men for a good while, particularly from the jitters that always accompanied a performance. But as the minutes drew nearer, and the frenzy of activity was reaching its apex, Greg realized the main issue, no, the essential issue that had been bothering him the last hour. 

"Where the fuck is Keith?"

"What's 'at?" The drumroll being concocted had been Carl's primary focus for the last three minutes, setting off Greg's impatience further.

"Keith. Have you seen 'im?" 

"Not for a bit." Replied Carl. Greg made a tense huff. Shifting in his stool.

Carl had only met Greg recently, but if the last month taught him anything, it was that Greg wasn’t extremely hard to read. Particularly right now.  
“He’s probably just out checking the organ,” he offered. 

Greg scoffed: “We’ve got loads of people checking stuff. Why th’ hell would he want to do it?”

Carl considered this, “maybe to see how much roughing-up it can take.” He laughed.

This answer didn’t seem to improve Greg’s mood at all, who was starting to look more cramped between Carl and the lockers, fingers drumming along his arm.

“You’re not thinking he walked out, are you?” 

Greg gave Carl a sidelong glance.

“Why would he do something like that?” Said Carl, “We've been planning this show for weeks!”

Greg started for a response before Carl interrupted: “I mean, it was Keith’s idea to come here before Wight. I don’t think he’d change his mind or anything.”  
“Look, I’m not saying he did. M’ just thinking out loud.” Said Greg. Carl shook his head.

“He doesn’t come off as that sort of bloke.”  
“Where is he then?”  
“er…”

The buzz of anticipation onstage was vibrating all around them now. The technicians settling into their positions and weary crew members flocking into and around the dressing room, making it hotter. Stewart Young, their manager, rushed towards them; beads of sweat falling off his brow. “Twenty minutes. It’s all set.”   
Greg cursed under his breath, pulling up off the stool. Stewart looked back and forth between the two. “Is Keith with you?”  
“‘Seems not,” Greg grumbled.  
“Where is he?”

“We don’t know,” Said Carl.

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?” butted-in Jerry, a lanky roadie with a long ‘stach. “Not like this place is big or anything.”

“Well, surrey babysitting s’not part of my job!” said Greg. He edged up towards Jerry nose-to-nose.  
New beads of sweat started to pour over Stewart’s forehead. He stepped between them. “Goddammit, save the scrap for later you two. All I know is we’ve got about three thousand people out there, and I don’t want to have them wait a moment longer.”

“Those three thousand people are waiting for Emerson Lake and Palmer.” Greg emphasized staunchly, “what'd ya think they are going to do if they see only two of us up there?” Greg searched the crew slowly starting to surround the room. 

“Probably tear you blokes to shreds, it being big talk’n the press n’all.”

“Put a fuckin’ lid on it, Jerry. I don’t remember asking you!”

“There you go again, Lake! Diggin’ me out. By god I’m not paid nearly enough.” Jerry swallowed a bitter drag of his cigarette.   
“Really?” Replied Stewart, butting in. “Because I think I pay you twats helluva a lot too much.” 

“For listening to Lake? Don’t think so.” Replied Jerry.

“You wanker!”  
So continued the spit-fire argument between the three. The growing energy within the building reached a sweltering intensity between the audience outside and the anxious in-fighting backstage. At this point, Carl just wanted to find Keith and get this fat mess over with. From the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar face curiously making his way into the room.  
“Oy, Derrick! Have you talked to Keith?”  
Derrick was a large man. Surly and dangerous looking despite his hearty demeanor. His sleeveless shirt had a large wet blemish from the collar down from man-handling equipment all night. His specific specialty was transport of the organ, making his interactions with Keith granted. Derrick mused over the question. “Lemme see, I did see ‘em not too long ago. ‘E Stopped t’ check how we placed the piano ‘n organ. After that I swear I think ‘e went in the direction of the loo.”

“He’s been there this whole time!” Exclaimed Greg, pulling himself out of the argument.

“Reckon,” replied Derrick.

Greg fitfully cursed under his breath, running his hand through his hair. Stewart checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

“That’s it. I’m dragging his arse out,” said Greg, marching his way out the door. Stewart, Jerry, and Derrick followed in his step, before Greg fell to an immediate stop. Turning a critical squint at the group amassed behind him. “I said I’M going to drag his arse out, not the whole bloody Armed Forces. What are you blokes? A bunch of secondary school girls?” Seething, but wanting to get over this issue quickly, the group wordlessly stood back. Satisfied with his public speaking skills, Greg prepared to make leave until:

“‘ey Greg,” Carl still sat on the old stool at the end of the room. His eyes glowed with the suspicious gleam of someone well aware of their charms. “Can I come?” He asked.

Of course Greg’s first reaction was no: _Why is everyone here so interested in seeing Keith take a piss?_ Yet time was inching up on them, Greg was clear enough in the head to know that. “Alright alright.”  
Carl eagerly jumped from the seat; entirely unnecessary for a man his height, but it did create a nice echoing _bang_ on the floor, announcing his presence in the way he liked. Drumsticks still in hand, Carl caught up behind Greg who was already well out of the door and trying to hold back his irritation enough to not bash Keith’s head in the first they found him.

**Author's Note:**

> Unfinished as of now. But hey! Better posting it here than letting it rot in my Docs. 
> 
> I certainly hope to wrap it up at some point. We'll see.


End file.
